LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Shelf,.L£Jj S 7 
Vi3^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE 



STORY OF PORTUS 



AND 



Songs of the Southland 



BY 



MARY 



H. LEONARD ^^Okp^ZZ^^ 




BUFFALO 

CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 
1894 






Copyright, 1894, 
By MARY H. LEONARD. 



PRINTED BY 

CHARLES WELLS MOULTON, 
Buffalo, N. Y. 



TO 

MY FELL O W- TEA CHERS 

AND 

FRIENDS IN SOUTH CAROLINA 

THIS BOOK IS 

AFFECTIONA TEL Y INSCRIBED 

BY 

THE A UTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The Story of Portus. 9 

Lines to a Friend 65 

Songs of the South 69 

Chevalier's Song. 69 

The Younger South 70 

Black Man's Song 71 

" Sandhillers " 72 

Jefferson Davis, December iith, 1889. 73 

Henry W. Grady 75 

Magnolia 77 

A Song of Cotton 78 

A Fatwood Fire 81 

My Mocking-Bird 82 

Hero-Worship 83 

Denial 84 

The Bride 85 

Beauty's Service 85 

Misunderstood 89 

Perplexity 90 

Appreciation 90 

Answer 91 

Fulfillment 92 

The Legend of Ninety-Six 92 

Christopher Gadsden 95 

Sonnets of the Southland 99 

Along the Congaree 104 



The Story of 

PORTUS 



The Story Of Portus. 

PRELUDE. 

THE tale a gracious lady told, whose heart 
Turns ever toward the haloed days, before 
War's tempest breath convulsed the Southland 
air, 
O'er-turned brave hopes and shattered to the roots 
The social system. True, the storm o'er-past, 
The sky was clearer; yet some costly plants 
Were crushed forever. 

Many a such doth grieve 
Both for her dead whose fruitless sacrifice 
Stabbed living hearts with an undying pain, 
And wofuller still for the resistless law 
By which To-day effaces Yesterday. 
Sitting among her shadows oft she speaks 
With loving, lingering words of years whose joys 
Loom large in ghostly memory now, whose griefs 
By distance dimmed have lost their outlines keen. 
And though one vaguely ask: "Were the former 

days 
Indeed so fair ? Were never mutterings heard 
Of thunder-clouds that overspread the heaven 



lo THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

And sent their deadly bolts to heart and home? " 
Yet marvel not that this fond gende soul 
Findeth in ruthless change no kindling glow 
To renew the heart-fire of that earlier time. 

Yet once in twilight confidence she sat 

Beside the lightwood blaze whose flickering flame 

Lighted the halls of memory, till she told 

Into a listening ear in accents soft 

This story of her girlhood; and revealed 

That ev'n to eyes of sympathy, perchance, 

The social system held a sombre side. 

A simple tale, of stirring incident void; 

Record of lowly lives by loftier swayed, 

Of how the unyielding Way of things doth press 

Too hard on here and there a suffering soul 

Unbent to average lot, — a soul that chafes 

Against the established order, as though born 

For a later era, after tardy time 

Shall bring displacement of the old ideals. 

Systems may cruel be, though men are kind, 
And not less cruel to the master power 
Than to the subject. Both in coils are bound 
Till fate shall free them. — Nay, I meant not fate. 
That pagan despot. Our anointed eyes 
Witness the coming of a holier realm 
Before whose scepter systems warped must bow. 
So Earth casts off old fetters: new-born thoughts 
Rule the new world, and over all stands God; 



THE STORY OP PORTUS. ii 

Resistless, hasting not, nor lagging, nay, 

But working in His time His own decree. 

Man doth his litde part, yet hath not power 

Greatly to change or quicken. His to keep 

The eye well open to the signal lights, 

The ear attendve to the King's command, 

And so direct his own small orderings. 

That without friction or impeding, they 

May find adjustment in the plan ordained. 

His part so feeble ? Then, — 'twere trivial fault 

To fail! O coward thought! — Himself 

Unneeded, yet his traitorous life may fall 

O'ertrodden by the triumphal march of truths 

He feared to fight for. Was it Joshua's might 

That levelled Jericho ? Yet had he failed 

To blow the trump, then were his memory doomed. 

But till the summons on the appointed day 

No human purpose could avail one whit. 

Thus on life's battlefield we wait in faith 
And patience for the fulness of the time. 

But pity for the souls too early born 
For life's fulfilments! So I tell this tale. 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

ON a fateful night in the century's earher half 
A lawless barque with human chattels enladen 
Sought landing with stealthy approach, on the 
desolate coast 
Of the Carolinas. Many a season had fled 
Since the Christian world had vowed that Atlantic 

seas 
No longer should reek with the stain of the traffic 

accurst; 
So eluding the grasp of the law, on a shelterless shore 
With night's black curtain its infamy blacker to 

shield, 
The slaver emptied its wreckage of stolen lives. 

Fit scene for the hellish deed was the murky night: 
No sound but the grating keel and monotonous 

plash 
Of the waves, and the plain of the night-bird's 

iterate cry. 
Grim trees enfettered tight by the tangled clutch 
Of insidious vines overshadowed the vaporous marsh 
By the turbid inlet, where sullen and silent the ship 
Its outlaw commission fulfilled and hastened away 
Under cover of darkness to deeds of piracy new. 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 13 

Among its victims there crouched an emaciate waif 
Of a differing Afric tribe from the Gullah race 
Whose sable descendants enpeople the rice-field 

swamps 
Of the tide-water district, his figure lithe, his cheek 
Brown as the hazel whose nuts the Autumn hath 

kissed. 
Of royal lineage he. His warrior sire 
Held tyrannous sway o'er a tribal kingdom, enriched 
By savagery's primitive arts, while as yet exempt 
From the white man's curses of rum and the slaver's 

trade. 
In the lap of the wilderness cradled, kind nature 

his nurse, 
His infant playmates the beasts of the jungle wild. 
To a sturdy stature the child of the forest grew. 
But alas! In an evil moment the boy with the king 
Went forward to batde. His mother within her kraal 
May mourn unceasingly now for her dusky son 
In an enemy's toils a terrified prisoner held. 

By leagues of weary marching the captives were led 
Homesick and wretched and worn to the Western 

Sea; 
Then to white-faced fiends were sold, whose greed 

for gain 
Made mock at the hellish price. By night they 

rowed 
To a waiting vessel whose stifling hold made room 
For the added victims. Becalmed in tropical seas 



14 THE STORY OF PORTUS, 

Through four long weeks, amid starvation and filth 
And the pangs of thirst, the crowded and sickening 

ranks 
By the merciful hand of death were speedily 

thinned. 
With fever consumed, the life of the slave-boy hung 
On a tenuous thread. But at last a vessel of war 
Gave chase to the lawless ship and a landing forced 
In the hidden inlet. At once as the hold disgorged 
Its sorrowful freight on the bosom of life-giving 

Earth, 
Nature recovered her own. In a purer air 
Life's pulses were quickened, and unto the hapless 

child 
A kindlier prisonment dawned. 

From the auction block 
With its grim allotments of chance, the alien was 

borne 
Afar from the mists and the mire of the sea- coast 

belt 
To the sand-hill plantations where cotton with 

clinging fleece 
Whitens the summer with shearings of Nature's fold; 
Where in shaded covert the mocking-bird warbles 

aloud 
Its choicest lays, and from their chalices pure. 
The polished magnolias sweeten the springtime air 
With perfume of incense. Here to a lordly estate 
With sullen demeanor concealing a quivering pain. 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 15 

By the new-made master the kidnapped negro was 

brought, 
To meet his future mission and destiny fixed. 



Strange the reversals of fate; from a savagery free 
To restrictions of civiHzed Hfe in the chains of a 

slave. 
Was it the plot of a demon ? Or trace we the plan 
Of a merciful Father who sought to succor a race 
From a heritage pagan ? Silent we stand in amaze 
As by light of the future illumined we turn to review 
The pregnant occasions where once humanity stood, 
Deaf to the issues that wait on a moment's decree, 
Blind to the centres where pivot the crises of fate. 

Calling from pastime his eldest, coequal in age 

As in stature, the planter with gesture of kindly 

command 
Led forth the bewildered child, saying: *' Rudolph, 

my son, 
This boy is your vassal, your bidding henceforth is 

his law, 
Sole arbiter thou of his duties and discipline meet. 
Yet in word and in action be kind. Let mercy be 

throned 
With justice its twin in thy governance ever. To 

you 
As its guardian this humbler nature in keeping is 

given; 



i6 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

Then care for it well. Nor forget that here dwell- 

eth a soul 
To its Maker subject alone. To its welfare be true 
And unto your servant, provider, protector, and 

lord." 

Around the slave-boy gathered the children at once 
With eager inquiry of parentage, birthplace and 

name. 
With a faltering tongue the stranger attempted 

reply, 
But the African word with a barbarous accent fell 
On the ears of the rest; and when to pronounce 

it they tried 
It sounded like Portus. " Portus, indeed, it shall 

be," 
Cried Rudolph. Thus was the name decreed. 

These two 
Master and servant, perforce, though children in 

years 
Entered that day into bonds of relationship fraught 
With issues momentous to both. Unto which was 

the tie 
The more consequential? Who knoweth? To 

each henceforth 
Was the other increasingly needful. Where Ru- 
dolph was found 
There Portus followed him close; in his childish 
plays 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 17 

Sharing with equal delight, or when manlier grown 
Attending his rambles and bearing the gun and 

the game 
On obedient shoulder as homeward at evening they 

fared. 
His humble pallet at night the servant would lay 
At the foot of his master's bed to be ready at dawn 
For the morning tendance. To Portus the unused 

toy 
And the garment half- worn were bequeathed, and 

when gifts and gains 
To the master fell, for the favored slave was reserved 
A generous share. ' Twas a strange and anomalous 

lot; 
Best friend and most cherished companion, ever 

at hand 
At Rudolph's desire, yet still to be signalled aside 
Whensoever it pleasured his whim; but with 

impulse reverse 
To be promptly summoned again, for no other 

could know 
Like Portus, each wavering humor and wanton 

caprice. 
If so were his pleasure, the master might conqueror 

be 
In every contest. For what hath the menial to do 
With rivalry equal ? Yet still it was trifling despite 
To the chivalrous Rudolph not seldom to yield to 

the slave 
The fullest meed of the victor. The recognized 

sense 



i8 THE STORY OF PORT US. 

Of responsible lordship, the claims of the weak on 

the strong 
Fired the conscience and heart of the owner with 

purposeful wish 
To render the servitude happy. The word of 

unkindness 
Gave seldom a wound that could rankle, and never 

in truth 
Fell the heartless blow. 

But to eyes of Portus the sun 
Found rising and setting in Rudolph. The master's 

frown 
To the servant was dreariest midnight, his favor 

was dawn. 

But time made a wider chasm. When the planter's 

son 
Was intrusted to tutors, the negro was steadily set 
To the tasks that befitted his station, and quickly 

became 
In the ways of tillage and many a manual art 
Abundantly versed. No stint of the guidance 

required 
To fit for the useful life that alone could bestow 
True honor and joy in the lot to the slave ordained. 
But still it was Rudolph's indulgence at night to 

repeat 
His lesson again to the eager ear of the servant 
Who listened with grateful attent, in the wish to 

become 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 19 

As nearly like Rudolph as nature and circumstance 
gave. 

Though the vigilant law of the State to the bond- 
man forbade 

The dangerous key to the treasury-vaults of truth 

In fear to engender plotting or evil-content, 

Yet a household attendant like Portus might safely 
be taught 

By the planter's children to read and to write in the 
firm 

Conviction that personal ties gave security's pledge. 

Thus Rudolph grew and Portus to manhood's 

estate, 
In a mutual affection, enlinked with one binding 

decree 
Like the law of the Medes and the Persians, ac- 
knowledged by both 
Yet never expressed, the law that the will of the 

slave 
Must be merged in that of the master. Had Portus 

resisted 
That will but once in defiance, could nothing have 

stayed 
The vengeance to follow. Submission at ultimate 

cost 
Must be exacted — yea, — unto penance of death. 

Now Portus erelong had forgotten his African 
speech 



20 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

And uttered a curious dialect mingled of those 

In cabin and mansion. With deference humble the 

rest 
Regarded his loftier station, which privilege gave 
To the others forbidden, and priceless affection and 

trust 
From the gentle folk whose dominion his fealty 

owned. 
In the rule of the cabins his mandate authority held 
Overtopped by the master's only, his pattern and 

guide. 



In a tottering hovel beyond the plantation's bound 
Black Juniper lived, to whom an old planter at 

death 
With philanthropic intent, had credentials be- 
queathed 
Of full manumission. Sometimes on a Saturday 

night 
Free Juny — for thus was the vagabond called — 

would sneak 
To the cabins with crestfallen look and in ragged 

attire, 
To witness the weekly carousals, or haply, to meet 
The wench that gossip had titled "Free Juny's 

Jane." 
Owning no master and therefore distrusted alike 
By black man and planter, the waif had been forced 

to elect 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 21 

A white man as guardian, whose written pass might 

avail 
For the pledge of protection as aimlessly hither 

and yon 
He shuffled at random will. No station for such 
Could society offer, a creature adrift, the best 
To be hoped was tolerance merely. No portion 

had he 
In the highborn family pride that exultantly filled 
The breast of the humblest dependant, never a 

friend 
Save the low-born white w^ho haply might harbor- 
age give. 

When Portus at evening had glimpse of the cow- 
ering form 

Stealing with hesitant tread by the sheltering fence. 

His eye grew alert. Garden and henroost were 
calling 

For vigilance keenest. An unslaved African held 

Motive for pillage to feudal dependants unknown. 

So the trusted and trustworthy servant his master's 
estate 

Right valiantly guarded, his bosom dilating the 
while 

With pride in the family prestige, and boundless 
contempt 

For such offscouring. 

His master's interest thus 
Portus, as seasons flew by, increasingly felt 



22 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

His intrusted commitment, his master's advantage 

the sum 
Of his own ambitions; and knew no existence but 

this, 
And felt no longing for other. Nay, are we sure ? 
Sometimes when he wandered apart, an expression 

would steal 
To his ox-like eye, a suggestive and hovering gleam 
Of a differing life condition, the elusive sense 
Of a conscious something, a dream or a memory, 

which ? 
Did ever a yearning vague for that earlier home 
Utter faint outcry ? Did any bewildering ties 
Remain unbroken that reached to that glimmering 

past? 

At last the plantation's head to his fathers' dust 
Was gathered; and then Master Rudolph brought 

to the home 
A maiden the fairest in all that country that dwelt. 
Then Portus opened his heart to a larger love 
And to his young mistress devotion more absolute 

gave 
Than to any beside. 

Suggested the planter one day 
' ' Portus, do likewise. Why not ? It would please 

me well 
That from all our plantation you freely select for 

your own 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 23 

A comely girl and gather some family ties. 

Your mistress's maid, pray, is she not fair as the 

eye 
Could desire ? " But drearily fell the refusing 

response. 
Then roused to displeasure, the master endeavored 

to move 
His servant's reluctance: till Portus in deepest 

distress 
Said, "No, Massa Rudolph. I eber has serbed 

yo' true, 
But fo' yore chillun wid better liking I works 
Dan fo' darky chillun. So, massa, don' urge no 

mo', 
I wants no wife. Yore fambly plenty fo' me." 
And the master stifled his anger and turned him 

away 
And let his servant compass his will in this. 



Now the olive-branches had budded and clustered 

around 
The household roof-tree, and Portus devoted his 

heart 
And his hands to a larger service. No other than 

he 
Might attend the master as borne by the prancing 

grays 
He traversed the bounds of the spacious ancestral 

estate. 



24 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

Old mistress too was his care; no arm so steady- 
To guide the old lady's uneven and lingering steps 
Down the garden walks and support her tremulous 
frame. 

But unto his younger mistress as bravely she took 
The arduous duties that fell to a planter's wife, 
His worth was above all counting; for who could 

advise 
Like him, as in care conscientious she watched o'er 

the weal 
Of the manifold weakling souls to her government 

given ? 
All the cares of a kingdom were hers, with Portus 

beside 
As Counsellor trusted and Officer chief of State. 

Now as Rudolph's children, one after one, began 

In the garden to toddle and sport 'mong the roses 
and vines, 

It was Portus' s dutiful pleasure to guard them from 
harm. 

Obeying their childish commands, and obeyed by 
them 

In turn; and he cherished them all as his own. 
Indeed, 

They were truly his only own. What had he be- 
side ? 

One gentle child of the group was the one who with 
tears 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 25 

Narrated this tale by the flickering firelight's glow 
When the grave had closed o'er the dutiful servant's 
head. 



The other children of bondage might easily bear 

A dual life; to their owner's service and weal 

One nature devoted, the other with ardor engrossed 

In cabin pleasures, enrooted in personal ties. 

But Portus, — none had he, — and he wished for none. 

At the quarters on Saturday eve or in Christmas 

week 
No hand so skillful to pat the juba, or pick 
The string of the banjo, the black man's jovial lute. 
At times he would lead the dance, or the African 

songs 
Would chant in resonant tones that reluctantly died 
In a doleful cadence; but oftener still would refuse, 
In moodiest silence sitting or walking apart. 
The negroes believed him peevish and haughty, 

uplifted 
By loftier service and home neath the mansion roof; 
And the white folk pitied, and said, " It is hard, we 

know 
For a nigger like Portus, but so is his station or- 
dained." 
Sometimes in the Sabbath rest he would linger for 

hours 
On the turf by the branch, his face upturned to the 

sky. 



26 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

What did he think of? Nay, was he thinking at 

all? 
What engendered these moods ? What hideth the 

innermost heart 
In its solitude deep, no clue unto others revealed ? 
What intricate elements enter the current profound 
Of onflowing fancies and longings that ceaselessly 

glide 
Through a human soul ? For the untaught African 

slave 
What thwarted ambitions, what memories well-nigh 

effaced 
Might be intermingled ? Could aught but monoto- 
nous blank 
Fill the musings of him who could hope for no 

change or advance 
In his life conditions ? 

One morning the mistress said, 
' * What is it, Portus, my boy ? Would you fain be 

free? 
To purchase your ransom then, we might give you 

the chance; 
Though ill can your labor be spared, we might 

change it perhaps 
To a service for wage, if liberty be your desire. ' ' 

* ' Naw, missus, naw. De free nigger, wat kin ' e 

do? 
He hab no place nor 'tachment. Nobody keers 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 27 

Fur de free nigger, nohow." 

" You might, if you chose, go North 
If freedom were given." 

" Naw, missus, I wants it not, 
De Norf is a stranger Ian', an 'tis col' in heart 
I, ike 'tis in sunshine. Yo an' de chillun am all 
Dat I hab to lub an to work fo'." 

The mistress again, 
" Is it Africa then that you long for ? Would you 

return 
To the home of your fathers? " 

" Nebber," said Portus, aghast, 
''I'se a Christian man. In de sabage wilderness 

now 
Dey is naught fo' me. Mos' like my fambly dead. 
An Portus would starb an' die. No Ian' saving dis 
Hab I now. De Souf is my home, an here mus' I 

stay. ' ' 

But the mistress still, *' There is nothing you think 

of that we 
Can alter? You're sure that freedom you do not 

wish?" 

" Naw, missus, I'se thankfuller jus' to b'long to you. 
Now I'b no need to worrit mysef wid accounts, 



28 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

Nor to pester my mind 'bout de time wen de rheu- 

matiz come 
To tie dese ol' shoulders an back wid de misery. ' ' 

Thus 
The kind and compassionate friends could nothing 

supply 
Save pitying love to the humble soul that perchance 
Was pining for what he knew not. 

Often at night 
When armed with his master's pass the servant was 

sent 
As a messenger trusted for many a household need, 
He fancied how strangely good it would seem to go 

forth 
His own director the while. Yet his physical needs 
Were supplied to the full. No lack of raiment and 

food, 
With tenderest nursing for trifling ailments, — yes, 
And staunchest devotion bestowed by the childish 

group 
Of his domineering and faithful followers. So 
In a gilded prison his life went silently on. 

Under shadowing oaks the master a chapel had 

built 
For plantation worship. Here weekly, on Sabbath 

morn. 
The mistress came with her gentle presence to teach 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 29 

These ignorant ones of God and Heaven and Christ. 
Sometimes a traveling preacher pursuing his round 
Of mission endeavor would offer his service to 

preach 
To the cabin people, and gladly was ever received. 
But at last one day from Yankee-land there arrived 
One who in priestly guise did scatter the seeds 
Of murmuring and revolt. The planters were roused. 
With threats of his life they drove the invader away 
Who thus could abuse hospitality's sacredest claim. 
But the preacher departing a dangerous volume had 

left 
(A tale of slavery's wrongs, that had roused the 

world) 
Hid in the chapel; and Portus discovered and read. 
Was this the book he had angrily heard discussed 
By the white folk last autumn ? "A dastardly lie," 

they declared. 
And to Portus it seemed most unreal. Could such 

things exist ? 
And yet what mysterious cord did it vibrate within. 
This story so strange ? No cruelty e'er had he felt. 
Yet he knew in his innermost soul that should the 

dim thoughts 
By the book suggested be openly told, on his head 
Would punishment fall, severer by far than he ever 
Had suffered or feared. And so he stifled his mu- 
sings 
And buried the book, nor revealed at the cabins one 

word 



30 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

Of its dangerous import. 

The planters with spirit declared, 
** If that Yankee traitor be found in these borders 

again, 
There's a limb and a halter ready." 

Again they affirmed, 

'* Our slaves must be carefully taught to assist them 
to fill 

Their stations with happiness here, and to fit them 
for Heaven. 

To these foreign intruders no more will we harbor- 
age give, 

But Christian preachers among us shall fittingly 
teach 

The slaves in our chapels their duty. So came they 
forthwith 

Bishop and Elder, — many a learned Divine, — 

Making their circuits. Sometimes on the Sabbath 
morn 

And again mid-week, the great bell sounded its peal; 

Then all on the old plantation — white-featured or 
black — 

Laid for the time their labors and pleasures aside, 

While with fervent exhortings the preachers showed 
to the slaves 

How Jesus was lord of their souls, and if they were 
washed 

In the blood of the Lamb and in service were faith- 
ful and true, 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 31 

That the mansions of Heaven were ready for them 

at the last. 
And the children of servitude gladly the message 

received, 
Committing their souls to Heaven (to escape from 

Hell), 
And finding religious joy. 

But doth it surprise 
That when the proclaiming of liberty loosened the 

bond 
That bound them so long to these masters, religion 

was found 
From the moral code in their minds too often 

divorced ? 
These who no riches had owned, should they rightly 

discern 
Betwixt mine and thine? The equivocal ties of 

marriage 
That might by the auction mart be dissevered at 

will, 
Can we marvel much that still they should foil to 

bind ? 
Nay, it is not strange. Its moral perceptions the 

world 
Hath by ages of tutelage gained, and each ignorant 

soul 
And degraded race through discipline only can rise 
To a moral manhood. Yet faith and devotion were 

born 



32 THE STORY OF PORT US. 

In these childlike hearts that so readily learned to 

rejoice 
In Jesus and Heaven. 

From the preachers Portus had learned 
To exhort with fervor; with marvellous unction 

could sway 
The souls of his hearers. No other so quickly 

could move 
The hearts of women devout unto exstacy's thrill, 
Till they swooned in religious trance. 

But the mistress had said, 
When the chill of November had ushered the busiest 

month 
Of all the twelve; when the holiday season ahead 
And the smokehouse duties to furnish abundant 

supply 
For the food of the year were engrossing the labors 

of all, 
"You must not, Portus, at present. It renders 

unfit 
For the needful and arduous tasks that the season 

doth bring. 
Its fitting time hath religion. For that you must 

wait." 

Sometimes when a wrestling hour had been valiantly 

passed 
The dusky visage would gloomier grow. Not 

then 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 33 

Could the arts of the children awaken a smile, nor 

cajole 
To the nursery stories of rabbit-foot charms, and 

the tale 
How Jack o' My Lantern had once disclosed to his 

eyes 
Direst events to happen. 

But to usual mood 
Returning full soon, he loftily honored his station, 
Chief factor in all the affairs of this feudal realm, 
This monarchy small that was ruled by an absolute 

power. 
But stay, — What said I ? Was absolute power 

ever given 
To mortal intrustment? No bond or restriction 

imposed ? 
On a neigboring plantation to Rudolph's, the owner 

was known 
Far and near as a merciless master. No stigma 

more foul 
Than that one to whom God had committed the 

fostering care 
Of fellow- creatures less favored, should recreant 

prove 
To the trust divine. 

One day it was whispered abroad 
That a dreadful deed, more dire than the sensitive 
tongue 



34 THE STORY OF PORT US. 

Could frame into words, in that planter's name had 
been done 

By an overseer hired. Like the flash of a turpen- 
tine flame 

Was the feeling enkindled, till retribution severe 

From the outraged community fell on their infamous 
heads. 

Then the planters in fellowship gathered, cemented 
a pledge 

That the soil of their State should be sacred from 
tyranny's stain. 

So willed they, and thus kept oppression and cruelty 
down. 

One autumn a visitor honored, a lady of thoughtful 
And dignified mien, from her far away English 

abode 
Came to Rudolph's mansion, whose welcoming 

doors swung wide. 
On the latticed piazza at evening she sat with her 

host 
In converse familiar. His sons so handsome and 

brave 
And his fair- haired girls under blossoming rose-trees 

played. 
*' These children are blest with a beautiful home," 

she said, 
"And happy is their allotment." 

''Thinkest thou so?" 
The planter replied, " Not seldom I tremble to think 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 35 

One thought for the future. The Lord foreseeth, 

not I. 
But near a volcano's crater, though dormant as yet, 
Our home hath been built, and mutterings now may 

be heard 
Oi the fearful explosion that on us may finally burst. 
With gloomy foreboding the lives of my children I 

watch. 
What fate will their future know ? Will they 

worthily meet 
The crisis that surely must come, God knoweth how 

soon? 
Perhaps before ever their innocent hearts are inured 
To the desperate conflicts of life. But our hands 

are fettered; 
Our duty is clear. At every hazard we must 
The social order preserve and protect our homes. 
Not for a moment's reprieve may our leaders relax 
The vigilant watch which alone is our safety's price, 
Eternal warfare waged, whatever the cost, 
Against alien intrigues that threat to engulf us all. 
But the dangers are thickening about us. Incendi- 
aries try 
To arouse to rebellion our servants. A cowardly 

part 
Their pretensions are playing, with envy and avarice 

mixed. 
Mark the ways of these ignorant servants, this 

childish race. 
Yesterday savages wild, but to-day brought close 



36 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

To Christian truth and the comforts of civiHzed Hfe. 
How else than through slavery's school had they 

ever been reached 
By the white man's uplifting touch and the gospel's 

power ? 
Surely beneath the sun there hath never been seen 
A happier people, a safer allotment than theirs, 
Shelter and food unfailing, and freedom entire 
From anxious thought for every to-morrow's need; 
And the Lord's best bestowment, — labor adapted so 

well 
To their strength and their mental resource, in a 

generous soil, 
And a genial climate, Nature's beneficent gifts. 
Visit the quarters at evening when labor is done 
And list to their joyous carousals. They seldom 

are sick 
And sorrow and anger are transient. Witness the 

joy 
Their religion affordeth. If lost for an instant their 

hope, 
Forthwith on the next Lord's Day they regain it 

with ease. 
Not a fear for time or eternity vexeth their hearts. 
Yet traitorous men of the North seek entrance 

among us 
To make these wretched, by rousing within them 

desires 
To be soon disappointed, and forcing us ever to 

make 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 37 

Restrictions more heavy. But truly oppression is 
rare 

In our borders. Bethink you, indeed, why should 
any exist ? 

Even selfish advantage alone might for motive suffice 

To lead us to kindness. We cherish the beasts that 
we own; 

Still more fellow-creatures immortal intrusted by God 

To our training and government. Unto His Judge- 
ship alone 

Our sole account will we render." 



And Portus heard 
And pondered in silence. 

Answered the visitor then, 
"Is it everywhere so in the Southland ? " 

" Perhaps not, indeed," 
The planter replied, " There is cruelty shown, it is 

said, 
In the lowlying tidewater sections of sugar and rice 
Whose rank miasma the white man scarcely can 

breathe. 
The salaried overseer truly doth sometimes rule 
With a rigorous hand. For the hireling can never 

be bound 
By those personal ties the inheriting master doth 

feel 
For his homeborn dependants. Coarsened natures 

are! those, 



38 THE STORY OF PORT US. 

Though of Saxon ancestry born, who would choose 
for hire 

A task so debasing. And haply most brutal of all 

Is the negro oppressor, when set by his owner to 
rule 

O'er his fellows. Then doth tyranny flourish indeed. 

That the system doth harbor its faults, I acknowl- 
edge with pain. 

It giveth a power that the despot will sometimes 
abuse; 

Round the necks of the masters it hangeth a bur- 
densome load 

Too heavy, well nigh, for humanity's strength to 
endure. 

I devoutly wish we were able to rid us at once 

Of this vast, half-imbecile horde that so weightily 
rests 

On our hands and our hearts. But human systems 
are ever 

Imperfect. For us there remaineth no way of es- 
cape. 

Our Maker hath placed them among us. Without 
our choice 

In the midst of this social order our lot hath been 
cast; 

And so we must struggle to fill our appointed place, 

To rule our servants with wisdom, and save our 
State 

From anarchy's threat. But I dare not look to the 
end, 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 39 

Even now low rumblings prelude the gathering 

storm. 
And if it burst, — ah, well, — we can survive 
Perhaps. But what can succor that helpless race ? " 

Thus many a master reasoned. But who shall 

contend 
Against the decrees ordained ? The eternal truth 
That every soul in its Maker's image created 
Holdeth inherent right in its personal life 
Nor can truly be owned by another, — this small 

stone 
Cut without hands from the mountain, was destined 

to grow 
And to fill the earth; till at length the image tall, 
An intricate social system, powerful and proud, 
Should be ground to the dust beneath it. 

Louder were heard 
The threatenings of trouble, and in their revengeful 

wake 
Came failure and panic; till Master Rudolph at 

length 
Saw poverty's straits before him. His menials now 
Had grown too many and costly. He scarcely 

could care 
For them all. And creditors pressed. Yet he 

painfully shrunk 
From the household dismembering. In truth, hardly 

better it seemed 



40 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

To his sensitive nature than parting with children 
and wife, 

But driven to final distress, he summoned the slaves 

And told to them frankly the trouble his vision fore- 
saw. 

Yet he promised, ' * I never will part the ones near- 
est of kin. 

Nor needlessly heartbreak give. But those who 
have formed 

Slender personal ties, stern fate may enforce me to 
sell 

For the requisite payment of legal and righteous 
claims. ' ' 

Then the servants, excited and trembling, pleaded 

with tears, 
'* Naw, Massa Rudolph, — sell us not from our 

home. 
We'se work de harder, fur true, an' we'se eat de 

less; 
An' we'se holp you through dis yh' trouble." 

And Portus came. 

With affrighted look, and in choking voice he im- 
plored 

'* Massa, yo knows dat I hab nary chick nor chile; 

But yours, Mass' Rudolph, are mine, and I mightily 
hopes 

Dat yo' will not sen' me from dem. I sh'd die." 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 41 

"No, that I will not, Portus," the planter replied, 

"And indeed I could not spare you." 

Thus that day 

The master gave to his servants a pledge and 
avowed, 

"Your fate is inwoven with mine." A few whose 
wives 

Or husbands served upon other plantations, to these 

Were removed, themselves and the owners consent- 
ing; except 

For this, the household remained intact. 

At last 
A rumor arose, and increased to a marvelous tale 
That a bold fanatic, called Brown of Kansas, had 

shapen 
A hellish plot to incite the negroes to rise 
And to murder the Ruling Race. It was whispered 

low 
Lest suspicion should reach the cabins. But Portus 

was sent 
That night to the neighboring village, and tidings 

vague 
To his ear were drifted. Returning, no hint nor 

word 
He told at the quarters, but straight to the master 

went. 
Unwonted fire in his eye was kindled; his lip 
And his form were quivering. " Massa," he cried, 

" Dey say 



42 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

Dat at las' de Yankees hab foun' out a plan fur to 

mek 
De black man free." 

"■ Indeed, and who told you that? " 
Scornful the master answered, not as his wont 
To reply to Portus. " Pshuh! a tatder's tale, 
A madman's trick! A devilish frenzy hath fouled 
The land. But hark ye! Ye need not think it can 

aught 
Achieve. Such dastard crime 'gainst the laws of 

the States 
Were folly. But hush, you fool, and see to it 

well 
That you blab not a word in the quarters." 

Trembling still 
Answered the negro, " Massa, yo' do me wrong. 
I hab not tole, an' I promise dey shall not know. ' ' 

Then the master, relenting, spoke with a kindlier 

tone, 
" In truth, do you wish it, Portus ? Would you be 

free?" 



** Naw, Massa, it am not fer me, an' I wants it not. 

Yet still, I tink, if 'twar diifunt, den, perhaps 

I would lub fur awile to wish an' to choose, an' to 

hab 
De ownership true ob mysef But we all mus' tek 
De place dat de Lord hab giben." 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 43 

" But tell me, Portus, 
What is it you want ? Am I ever unkind ? What 

more 
Could liberty give you ? ' ' 

" O massa," the slave replied, 
" Yo' hab alius been kin' an' protectin'. But yet I 

keep wishin' 
Dat it all war dififunt somehow." A shining tear 
Trickled down the dusky cheek as he turned away. 

But blacker the war-clouds grew, and the gathering 

storm 
That alone could lighten the firmament thundered 

at last 
In fury terrific to rage till the land had been washed 
From the stain of a national sin. Then mid fast 

falling tears 
The bow of Liberty's promise illumined the heavens. 
Now the master buckled his sword, and departing 

he said, 
" Portus, my faithful boy, to your hands I commit 
The care of this home and its burden of lives so 

precious. ' ' 
And the negro's manhood at thought of the weighty 

intrustment 
Awoke in his bosom. With choking voice he 

replied, 
" Nebber yo' fear. Mass' Rudolph, I'se tek good 

keer 
Ob Mis' Lucy an' all de chillum. Dey's safe wid 



44 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

History hath written that during those terrible 

years 
Of hatred and bloodshed with menace of famine 

before, 
On many a lone plantation, innocent babes 
And tender women to hardship and toil unused. 
Waited and prayed for husband or sire or son. 
Protector and prop, who with grim foreboding had 

left 
His cherished ones far from the touch of a human 

hand 
Or other guardian and help than the African slave, 
Whose liberty thus by a nation's blood was bought. 
To the faithful hands of its bondsmen the stricken 

South 
In its desperate strait did its treasures all commit. 
Their willing labor alone did supply the food 
That fed the armies abroad and sustained the 

homes. 
Through four long years of privation and painful 

suspense 
They faltered not nor betrayed the responsible trust. 

Now freedom at last was proclaimed by the Nation's 
Head 

As the law of the land. And though no fruition 
appeared 

For many a month, yet among the slaves its rumor 

Was vaguely whispered, a legend not well under- 
stood, 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 45 

Or but dimly believed. At night by the fires of the 

cabin, 
When ghostly visions and ancient mysterious tales 
With hesitant voice were repeated, the fancy would 

dwell 
On the wonderful theme. Was it something to 

hope or to fear ? 
What was this freedom ? A Paradise here on earth, 
Where the darkies would all be rich, and would 

never again 
Be forced to labor? Or was it as white men 

declared 
A devilish plotting of Yankees with horns and 

hoofs, 
A scheme to murder the Masters, to take their lands. 
And enslave the blacks in a bondage crueller far 
That they ever had felt ? It seemed to their fancy 

akin 
To the Judgment Day with its visions wondrously 

mixed 
Of heavenly crowns and sulphurous gulfs of fire. 

The final winter had come and the boasts of success 
Grew ever more loud as the famished and desperate 

South 
Strove in vain to recover its failing hope and escape 
The defeat impending. The air with rumor was 

thick 
Of Sherman advancing, the track of his warlike 

sycthe 



46 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

A desolate swath through the heart of their beautiful 

State, 
Filled with smoking cities and homes to pillage 

given over. 
Then the direful news that the capital city, the pride 
Of all hearts, lay in ruin of ashes; its homeless souls 
Left starving and helpless; that now the revaging 

host 
Were moving to northward; that in a brief time they 

would pass 
Near Rudolph's plantation, where Portus, the faith- 
ful slave 
At his mistress's bidding made ready with haste to 

protect 
His master's domain from the ruthless invader's 

power. 

Unrest had corrupted the quarters. This turbulent 
year 

Those who fain would escape from labor had wan- 
dered away; 

While a few at the claims of war were reluctantly 
sent 

To the auction mart, sowing seeds of fear and dis- 
trust 

Among those who were left. 

Now tumult and tremor beset 
The unhappy plantation, as aged and young, black 
and white. 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 47 

For the enemy strove to prepare. To the thickest 

grove 
Of the forest, with provident haste the horses and 

mules 
Were driven. In the garden depths the silver they 

buried, 
And filled with food and with treasure each secretest 

nook. 
So made they ready. 

Then bravely the mistress assembled 
The household servants at first, and she said, " To- 
night 
The Northern army comes and will doubtless declare 
That you now are free. No struggle longer I make. 
Choose each for himself But know that you all are 

dear 
To my heart, and that if you remain I will do the 

best 
That I can for your future." 

With instant accord they replied, 
*' We'se stay wid you eber, Mis' Lucy. We don' 

wanter go. ' ' 
So said they at first; but later did many repent, 
And recklessly wandered at will. But Portus drew 

near 
Saying, " Yo* an' de chillun, Missus, am alius my 

own 
An' my only frens. I eber is yours until death," 



48 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

" God bless you, Portus," was all that the mistress 
said. 

And now she gave bidding that all the plantation 
people 

Before the piazza should gather; then firmly de- 
clared, 

" The Yankee army approacheth. You all are free. 

No service longer I claim." A silence profound 

As the hush of the grave on the group for a moment 
fell; 

Then some of them laughed and shouted, while 
others wept. 

And all in wonder awaited what next should befall. 

Now came the advancing host and a Major tall 
Rode up to the door of the mansion and making 

salute 
Said, "Madam, be not alarmed. No harm shall 

arrive 
To you or your household; but food for our soldiers 

and beasts 
We are forced to take. I will station a guard to 

to protect 
From all needless pillage." 

The lady haughtily bowed. 
" We are at your mercy, "she said. Then turning she 
passed 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 49 

To an upper room where her children were gathered 

in fear, — 
That she might not witness the rifling of her home. 

Now Portus kept watch all night at his mistress's 

door. 
*' Here, you fool nigger, come, will you go with us?" 
A corporal asked, " We'll give you a uniform blue. 
And make you a man, by a better species of work 
Than the service of rebel women. ' ' 

The dilated eye 
For an instant flashed: his figure grew more erect. 
Not freedom, but manhood, a moment's temptation 

gave. 
Then the passive mien came back. " Naw, boss," 

he said, 
"I'se promise' to stay by Mis' Lucy an' tek good 

keer 
Ob de house an de chillun." 

Next morning the straggling squads 
Of detested bluecoats had passed. But the wrecks 

remained. 
All was dismal and bare. Full half the plantation's 

force 
Eager to taste of the newfound freedom had fol- 
lowed 
The wake of the army. A glittering bauble now 
Did this boon of liberty seem to their curious eyes; 



50 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

Nor recked they of ills they must suffer before they 

should learn 
To prize it indeed at its worth. For the present it 

seemed 
Like permission for leisure and wandering, treasures 

of gold 
To be had for the asking, license unchecked for 

whatever 
Their baser natures might prompt. 

In the mind of the child 
While subject as yet to his tutors we seek to instill 
The rules for self-governing action, and labor to 

make 
The practice a gradual habit, lest fettered too much 
In his tutelege early, at last when arriveth the 

time 
For manlier effort, the unused powers should react 
In a warring chaos. Of millions of slaves in our 

land 
On whom without warning the sunrise of freedom 

arose. 
With resolute stride a few forth-started at once 
On the road to a vigorous manhood. But truly to 

most 
The boastful gift of liberty proved at the first 
A pitfall wherein they stumbled; out of whose 

depths 
Some struggled; — but others alas, were powerless 

to rise. 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 51 

Then shall we say it were best that it had not been ? 
But no, — a thousand noes, — it is only by pangs 
Of human distress that a human soul can begin 
Its earthly career. Nor is ever an epoch born 
But by throes convulsive and laboring pains of 

birth. 
And liberty then a stalwarth manchild proved 
At whose natal hour was a nation's agony paid 
For its deliverance, — yea, and was added still 
Full many an after-pang before healing came. 
Was the price too costly ? Nay, if the Lord be true, 
And if He ruleth the nations, dare not we 
To deny His wisdom and love in the stress and the 

strain 
That shook the civilized world when in fulness of 

time 
Salvation was born upon earth for two races in 

thrall. 

Now following on apace came the final crash. 

Richmond had fallen, Lee surrendered. All 

The treasure and heartbreak and blood had been 
given for naught. 

Ere long came the master, wounded and helpless 
home. 

From the sufferings of hospital prison at last re- 
leased ; 

With his riches vanished, his vigor of youthful zeal 

Departed forever, his home and plantation a 
wreck. 



52 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

Nor could former experience shed an illumining 

light 
On the future forlorn into which so blankly he 

gazed. 
Stricken and stunned for awhile the household 

sat; 
Then wearily summoned their strength to attempt 

to restore 
The semblance at least of a home. 

But to Portus withal 
Life gathered new meanings. Labor indeed was 

no less, 
Nay, heavier now than of old. He accepted no 

wage, 
And his homely allotment by meanlier comfort was 

graced. 
Yet he felt that the service was joyfuller. It was 

free. 
Responsibility now had impressed the seal 
Of manhood upon his soul. 

He had wisely been taught 
Those industrial habits and arts of manual skill 
Which provident planters were wont to instill in 

the minds 
Of their chosen dependants. Each lone plantation 

supplied 
Of well-trained artisans alway an adequate force 
For the household's inherent demands. When the 

merciless bolts 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 53 

Of war had fallen, the favored of fortune were 

these. 
While others both Saxon and African, stood in de- 
spair, 
Such souls held resources within, that naught could 

deprive 
Of their measureless worth. So to Portus the priv- 
ilege blessed 
Was given to succor from want the household he 

loved. 
But shortly the idling bands who at Liberty's birth 
Threw away the hoe, expecting thereafter to lie 
In the lap of luxury — labor forever aside — 
Came back from their wanderings, having discov- 
ered how poor 
Was the gift of freedom they knew not at present 

to use 
To final advantage. Some back to the mansion- 
house came. 
Nigh ready to sue for enslavement again, if but so 
They might sustenance freely receive at another's 

hand. 
And many fell ill and died. And some even blamed 
Old Father Abram himself that he made them free, 
But unto the boon no bequest of wealth had added. 

Could other than this have been hoped for ? Israel 

of old 
Escaped from Egyptian bondage, yet failing of 

rest 



54 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

In the land of promise and hope, for the fleshpots 

sighed 
That their servitude nourished. And so these dusky- 
sons 
Of a later release ungrateful murmurings mingled 
With true thanksgivings. Yet still unto most such 

thoughts 
Were transient, if tolerant harborage ever they found. 
Few of them all would this dear-bought freedom 

have sold 
For a mess of pottage, though laid at starvation's 

door. 
Millions of ignorant souls, they were suddenly 

launched 
Without rudder or pilot or stores for the journey's 

need 
On an unexplored ocean, endangered with shallows 

and rocks. 
Yet in spite of the wrecks that have perished, and 

breakers before. 
What advancement is theirs! In all its annals the 

world 
Such progress hath never recorded in space so brief. 

But those were dispiriting times. When the starv- 
ing deserters 

With disappointment devoured came straggling 
back, 

Seeking food and shelter and aid at the master's 
door, 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 55 

Then Portus impatient rebuked, " Go long wid yo' 

all. 
Fse tek keer ob de wite folks. Niggers am triflin' 

account. ' ' 

But the master with pity, ' ' The cabin quarters are 

free 
For your habitation again, and if you should choose 
My crop of cotton to make, I will pay you wage 
As I can afford." So with friction and grumbling 

perchance. 
To the old plantation did many return and begin 
The life of an epoch new with labor's rewards 
And relations as yet untried. 

'Twas a desperate age; 
For ignorant hordes at large made villany rife; 
And Justice with paralyzed arm and averted face 
Had fled the courts, in default of her God-given 

trust. 
White men all drunken grown with the gore of war 
Hated the freedmen and deadliest vengeance vowed 
On the new-time rulers; or, haply, if failing of these 
On the dusky tools that they managed. 

Then began 
The reign of the Ku-Klux terrors, the long un- 
checked 
And terrible friction of turbulent years that make 



56 THE STORY OF PORTVS. 

More deplorable comment upon the vile stains that 

deface 
Humanity's record than crimes of warfare itself. 

One dreary midnight to Colonel Rudolph it chanced 

That a sudden sickness befell; for the army life 

His powers had enfeebled. Now Portus his mule 
bestrode 

To get him in haste to the town for the doctor's aid. 

But arrived at the edge of the wood he encountered 
a gang 

Oi black-masked riders made spectral by lanterns 
dark. 

'Twas the dismal and sickening tale that hath often 
been told. 

Mules had been stolen, gardens and henroosts 
sacked; 

Then as final incitement, a white man's body was 
found 

Near the head of the creek. Suspicion was cen- 
tered at last 

On a worthless negro whose hut in the forest was 
built. 

Even if false the surmising, example was due. 

When law failed to punish, imperative need had 
arisen 

That vigilant citizens rise to protect the State. 

So the ruthless band in the name of order and law 

Went forth on a lawless errand, but found them- 
selves balked 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 57 

Of the victim Intended, and now In sullenest mood 
They were riding again to their homes. 

At the startling sight 
Of the grim procession Portus was filled with alarm 
And fled In dismay. But a murderous voice cried 

out, 
" Halt with yon stolen mule. A nigger abroad 
At midnight betokens no good. Ef yer aint the one 
Thet's been troublln' these yere parts, ye hev sins 

enough 
Of yer own to account for. We'll string yer up 

with despatch 
To yon walnut tree, an' termorrer yer damned race 
Shall a needful lesson learn." 

Then Portus felt 
A sudden pain in the back, and fainting fell. 
Shot through the lung. The maskers gathered 

around 
With the halter ready to finish their bloody deed 
By a ghastly sight for the morning passers by. 
But just as they tightened the rope, on the pallid face 
A glimmer of moonlight fell. The murderer's 

hand 
Relaxed Its hold. An astonished voice exclaimed, 
" I 'clar ter gracious. I'm blowed, ef we aint been 

an' shot 
Col'n Rudolph's Portus. Bless me, but 'tis too 

bad, 
Best nigger that ever lived." 



58 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 

The senseless form 
Not Lintenderly now they lifted, and laid him down 
At his master's door and silently hurried away. 
There the household found him. What human 

skill could devise 
Was done for his cure; but the time decreed had 

come. 
Feebly his dying whisper was borne to the ears 
Of the sorrowing group that watched the expiring 

breath. 
" God bless yo' Massa an' Missus, chillun all. 
Yo' has eber been kin' an' lovin' an' good ter me. 
I has tried to serb yo' well. Dis body b' longed 
To you. But de soul was alius my own an' God's. 
I has no complent to mek. But I'se glad to go 
For in de mansions above, I is suttin sure 
Dat all will be diffunt somehow." 

They buried with tears 
Their dead in a garden nook that his dusky hand 
Had so carefully tended, and planted a rose-tree near, 
And a simple head-board raised with inscription 

brief, 
*' Portus, — a servant, — faithful unto death." 
One mourner constant, she who related this tale, 
Unto womanhood grown, erected a marble stone 
As memento befitting the humble friend whose 

devotion 
Had brightened the gloom of her checkered child- 
hood days. 



THE STORY OF PORTUS. 59 

And now the children of Rudolph's children come 
And heap it with roses every returning spring. 



A simple tale of one who loved and strove 
To do his duty where his humble lot 
Was cast; a fate indeed not most unkind. 
All of its compensations slavery gave 
To Portus freely, yea, and sheltered him 
From many an ill that vexeth anxious hearts. 
Why did he wish it different ? Nay, hath God 
Made man to bear his image ? Can a soul 
Formed to aspire and grow, its all in all 
Find in another's will ? Ye parents kind 
Who strive to shape the pathway of your child 
By cherished plans that your best love hath laid, 
Teachers and priests and princes, will ye dare 
To fetter souls you fain would foster, or 
Usurp the Headship held by God alone ? 

Tale of a system dead, that while it checked 
The onward march of truth and held the seeds 
Of sure decay and death, had none the less 
Bright phases that the world will ever keep 
In tender memory. A social type 
To Southern soil indigenous hath died, 
Never precisely to be reproduced 
While time shall last. So be it. It is well. 
It fitteth not this age. Yet gently still 
We'll write its epitaph. In God's wise plan 



6o THE STORY OF PORTUS. 

It formed, perchance, a needful stepping stone 

To lift from savagery a heathen race. 

Yea, more. Its harvest of results to-day 

Hath brought strange races in relations close 

That so the world may truelier understand 

Duties and rights of universal man. 

Yet in the firmament of broadening truth, 

Dark cloud-forms still the gray horizon skirt; 

Hard social questions, new, yet ever old, 

In varied forms seek new adjustment still 

In every land and nation, race and clime, 

Yet fail of perfect answer. Like attempt 

To render motion ceaseless, — efforts made 

To square the circle, — problem nearly solved 

Yet still insoluble — so is the task 

In just relations man with fellow-man 

To place, and all with God in harmony. 

What just precedence each should yield to each; 

How should submission blend with mastery 

That so the social order be preserved 

Yet still each heavenborn soul unfettered stand 

In personal growth ? Which hath superior claim, 

Mankind or men ? Which is the unit fixed, 

The human race, or each small entity it holds? 

Like wheel within a wheel, the small and great 

Each with its central pivot, move we all 

Within society. If broken cog 

Give clash with tiny fellow-wheel, ensues 

Disaster that perchance may hindrance give 

To largest revolution. True indeed, 



THE STORY OF TORTUS. 6i 

Must the adjustment be to bind aright 
The one to many, and the all in one. 

Large conquests hath the conscience of the world 
Through conflict gained and never will restore. 
Thus still shall later truths their triumphs win. 
But oh, the hate, the strife, the jostling jar, — 
The blood of heroes! May we never win 
Reform by peaceful process ? 

Is the shower 
More potent for the lightnings ? Yea, it needs 
Electric flash and shock of thunders rude 
Of perilous vapors foul to cleanse the air. 
This too is Sovereign plan, and in God's way 
Are no mistakes. 

As strains of music given 
By players near lend but discordant clash. 
Yet heard afar, blend in proportions sweet; 
So all these discords, if they could be heard 
From Heavenly heights might seem to blend in one 
Triumphant strain of Heavenly harmony. 



Songs of the 

Southland 



K 



LINES TO A FRIEND. 

IND friend, of mutual faith and kindred taste, 

A thousand cares and joys with thee I've shared, 
And firmest confidence was ne'er misplaced 
However fate hath fared. 



Yet in most welcome converse oft hath been. 

Art, science, poesy, whate'er the theme, 
A note of subtle discord entering in 
Like mutterings in a dream. 

Is it the fault of climate, or of birth ? 

Of the environment that childhood knew ? 
Because in different latitudes of earth 
Our souls to stature grew ? 

Whether because my grandsires gained their bread 

From flinty, frugal soil amid the roar 
Of ocean winds that rocked their cradle bed 
And freedom's message bore; 

But thine mid languorous airs of softer clime 

Saw dusky faces at their bidding bend, 
And learned the arts that in a feudal time 
Do feudal graces lend ? 



66 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Is it this force of Pilgrim blood in me 

Gives my ideals a differing hue from thine? 
To thee doth glow of age of chivalry 
Make variant virtues shine ? 

Were't possible all beauties to unite ? 

Could thoughts antipodal sweet kinship feel ? 
Is not swift impact sure the spark to light 
When flint encounters steel ? 

A hundred topics fire it. Large or small 

The thought or theme, not one but seems to be 
Close anchored to that central fact in all 
Our nation's history, 

The civil strife that gathered as it must 

'Twixt social systems of opposing plan, 
Contentious views of life's relations just 
For man and fellow -man. 

They say, " Let be! Bid vain dissensions rest. 
Unearth no more dead issues. We are one." 
What fools they be! The Present is impressed 
With Past, though War be done. 

As well forbid that earth's internal fires 
Convulse again its surface, as pretend 
That burning sentiments that roused our sires 
Have met a buried end. 



SVNCS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 67 

Nor were the fear to speak the honest thought 

A fitting peace for comrades, but for foes, 
Or chance acquaintance, whose communion naught 
Save drear poHteness knows. 

We read our father's record. At the word 

Yankee am I, Confederate thou again. 
To sudden zeal our sympathies are stirred 
At prick of History's pen. 

Yet is the jar all discord ? Or at most 

Doth it but serve our angles to abrade, 
And manifest mistakes, a mighty host, 
Our sires in blindness made ? 



No recreant I to truth because I see 

Some rays that morning mist had erst concealed; 
Base were it if with mounting sun should be 
No clearer light revealed. 

I see thy fathers dying without fear, 

For what they deemed the right, resigning all, 
Perplext in reasons, but with heart sincere 
To follow Duty's call. 

I view their courdy mien, the dauntless way 

They slaughtered self a cherished cause to save, 
Nor am I loth my tributes here to lay 
On Lee's and Jackson's grave. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

But truly thou hast felt more strenuous change, 

So much that seemed at variance with thy past 
With courage hast accepted. Altered range 
Of vistaed life thou hast. 

And now, while o'er thy blood-stained soil again 

New hopes, new energies, new joys unfold, 
Thou knowest the fathers did not die in vain. 
Nor would' st recall the old. 

Costly the strife in blood and misery 

And countless treasure both to South and North, 
But a united land, fraternal, free. 

Still costlier price were worth. 

And loyal souls shall raise thanksgivings still 

In future ages, that through unknown ways 
And human weakness, God did work His will 
And manifest His praise. 

So friend, I shun thee not, nor fear to share 
Past memories and hopes of future days, 
Nor dread collision, if we freely dare 
Differing deeds and ways. 

No jar, but music, if in steadfast faith 

And generous sympathy we give and take, 
Nor fear that rudest fact that History saith 
Could our leal friendship break. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 69 

No need of foreign foe to make us clasp 

Fraternal hands in common cause once more, 
New aims and future issues tempt our grasp, 
To these fling wide the door, 

While East and West and Southland North unite 

With all their sons, to Freedom's birthright true, 
And build foundations of a future bright 
O'er graves of Gray and Blue. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 



CHEVALIER'S SONG. 

A LAMENT for the good old days, 
The age of the brave and the fair. 
The times are disjointed, deceivers wax 
strong, 
While argument noisy displaceth the song. 
And sophistries fill the air. 

In heartbreak and blood Glory died. 

We spared neither fortune nor life 
In the boldest attempt that was ever begun 
Against hazardous odds. But now it is done: 

Peace reigneth after strife. 



70 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

We buried our hopeless Cause. 
Yet memories sweet fill the mind 
Of the old feudal life, of the sun that has set 
On Chivalry's graces: while deepest regret 
And devotion are left behind. 

But the Past in the Future shall live. 

The old order altereth fast; 
Yet from ancestry noble alone can spring 
A noble descent, and till death will we bring 

Tributes meet to our hallowed Past. 



THE YOUNGER SOUTH. 

WITH eyes turned toward the morning 
With garments girt for fray, 
Decrepit issues scorning 
He strideth forth to-day. 
To new resources waking, 
Mighty contingents staking, 
He sees o'er all a coronal 

Of fadeless oak and bay. 

What though his wealth be scattered 

And wounds of war still smart ? 
Though cherished hopes lie shattered. 
Loud sings his buoyant heart. 
Life hath its resurrections. 
And cheered by Hope's reflections 
He boldly now records the vow 
To act no coward's part. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 71 

What if, though passion rages, 

His heart should find this grace 
To solve for all the ages 
Vast problems of the race ? 
If here he victory gaineth 
And God's own truth maintaineth, 
With highest claims 'mong conquerors' names 
Shall his deserve a place. 



BLACK MAN'S SONG. 

FROM the land of the sun, sad victims of greed, 
Our fathers were stolen away. 
But the fruit of their grief, by the All- Wise de- 
creed, 
Is our strength and salvation to-day. 

In this liberty land are we citizens born, 

Her speech, her religion are ours; 
The touch of the white man, though mingled with 
scorn 

Hath wakened our slumbering powers. 

" The child of the bondwoman may not be heir 
With the child of the free," they cried; 

But a Christlier gospel pervadeth the air. 
And its truths shall forever abide. 



72 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

We are coming undaunted, our heirloom to take; 

O brothers more blest, give us time, 
View with patience our faults and assist us to make 

Through struggle a record sublime. 

Who knoweth what mission awaiteth us here 
For the land that in common we love ? 

Who can say what achievement in us shall appear 
That the world's great adjustments shall move ? 



"SANDHILLERS." 

BROWN jeans, cotton gown. 
Pipe in mouth, they come to town, 
Dull eye, cheek of tawn. 
Two-wheeled cart by ' '' critter ' ' drawn. 

Hawk their wares — (or beg, alas) 
"Berries, 'lightwood,' sassafras," 
Barely live, — no higher aim, — 
Son and grandson still the same. 

Do they love ? Do they hate ? 
Do they choose this dull estate ? 
Have they hopes ? Have they fears ? 
Joys or griefs to mark the years ? 

Why such lot ? In feudal days 
Outcast they from social ways. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 73 

Sterile soil — life alone — 
Slave nor master did they own. 

What the end ? Is for these 
Newborn South of prophecies ? 
Or will fate soon or late 
Total type exterminate ? 



JEFFERSON DAVIS, DECEMBER iith, 1889. 

THE Southland mourns. With dirge of tolling 
bell 
And bated breath 
Devoted millions to the nations tell 
That war's defeat their homage could not quell 
For chieftain hushed in death. 

Not to the stedfast valorous heart alone 

Is tribute brought. 
His name the synonym of glory flown, 
Of fallen Cause which Southrons not disown, 

For which their fathers fought. 

In flower-strewn catafalque and thronging host 

We seem to see 
The tenuous wraith of issues that almost 
The nation rent, that dire conclusions cost 

In human destiny. 



74 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

To sift events of war not this the time, 

Such History's task. 
Whether his Hfe-devotion were a crime, 
Or but the frustrate force of soul subHme 

Let future ages ask. 

To-day give sepuhure to Leader dead, 

To warrior proved, 
And scatter floral requiems o'er his head, 
And deck his gray-robed form with white and red. 

The banner that he loved. 

But not the nation's ensign! 'Twere unmeet 

Its folds to use 
In hollow half-mast mockery to greet 
Him who till death did clasp his proud defeat 

And loyalty refuse. 

Nor would he wish it. Throbs of tenderness 

Beat in his breast 
For Southland only. Then let clamor cease. 
But give him what he loved. And may God's peace 

Upon his ashes rest. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 75 



HENRY W. GRADY. 

DIED DEC. 23, li 



SECESSION'S Chief just gone! And hark! 
Again the knell 
Of death! But on what shining mark 
This missile fell! 
Then^ strife unhealed gave sorrow scope; 
To-day the new-born South laments a blighted hope. 

With words of peace upon his lips 

The soul went forth. 
As bee from bloom the honey sips, 

So South and North 
Drink gentle thoughts this Christmas-tide 
That Grady voiced with moving eloquence, — and 
died. 

But what prophetic vision flits ? 

The South, long bound 
By dominant ideas, like bits 

Of iron round 
One lodestone point, each separate spar 
By one attraction held, yet bristling wide and far, — 

Sudden they fall apart, their pact 
At last o'ercome 



76 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

By subtle chemic powers that act 

Resistless from 
New mingling elements, and to our view 
The solid unit falls to fuse in structure new. 

Yet nay! Not chefnic force! Bend low 

Thy listening ear 
And hear the pulsing life-blood flow; 

Soon shall appear 
The new organic whole, each vital part 
Feeling with each alike the nation's throbbing heart. 

Should Southland faint despairing ? No. 

The Ages cry 
" Movements are more than men," and so 

Though leader die, 
God hath reserved resources still. 
And through mysterious ways He works His sover- 
eign will. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 77 



MAGNOLIA. 

THOU Grandiflora, lifting high 
Symmetric branches 'gainst the sky, 
Like a patrician in thy pride, 
My window-pane beside, 
MagnoUa! 

Thy perfumed snow-white banners fling 
Profuse and free the charms they bring, 
And coral seed-cones scatter round 
Their jewels on the ground, 
Magnolia! 

Thy polished leaf-whorls proudly wear 
Each a perennial, courdy air 
As if nor wind nor tempest could 
Debase thy gentry-hood, 
Magnolia! 

In gentle clime thou hold'st thy place 
A miracle of stately grace, 
'Mong leafless boughs first envoy seen 
Of tropic evergreen, 
Magnolia! 



78 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 



A SONG OF COTTON. 

SOFT and feathery fibre white 
Pressed in solid bale, 
Substance for my garments light, 

Thou dost tell a tale 
Full of rich association 
With the storied old plantation. 

In the ante-bellum days 
Was thy glory felt, 
Ere the rush of modern ways 
Had new rulings dealt. 
Clumsy press and gin-house roomy 
Signify thy history to me. 

Chiefest wealth of Southern soil 

Known to planters brave, 
To thy culture given the toil 
Of the humble slave; 
Yet some things they had forgotten 
When they called thee "Old King Cotton.' 

Watch the glossy plants uprise, 

In their vernal green, 
Row on row before our eyes 

Stretching fair and clean. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 79 

Cotton fields in sandy settinj^ 

Charm the eye, bright hopes begetting. 

Opening blossoms, white to-day 

Pink to-morrow morn, 
Morrow after, fallen they 
Withered and forlorn. 
But the angled forms appearing 
Prophesy of harvests nearing. 

Brown and dry at last the field 

As each bursting boll 
Now begins its wealth to yield. 
Beauty crowns the whole; 
Feathery fleeces soft and clinging 
O'er the earth a mande flinging. 

Sable forms inured to toil 

Soon are gathered here, 
Each plucks out the snowy coil 
Of the fibrous sphere. 
Heaps the lint within his basket; 
Gentler toil, he doth not ask it. 

Staple short or staple long, 

Fibre pure and cool, 
Gleaming out in contrast strong 
With his dusky wool, 
Loosened bits around him hovering 
Deck his rags with downy covering. 



So SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Now at last the linty seeds 

Gathered by the gin, 
Go to serve a hundred needs 
From their wealth within, 
Wealth complete with naught of losing. 
Every grain some worth infusing. 

Hath the gathered crop a lien ? 

Ah! if so I fear 
Those rich gains that Hope hath seen, 
Are doomed to disappear. 
You will rue it, if you put your 
Confidence in a cotton future. 

But younger Southrons all around 

In whose heart of youth 
Is no cotton fibre found 
Rule the age, in truth. 
Southern factories now are showing 
A new life for cotton growing. 

Busy hands to labor lent 

Here fresh openings find. 
Stalwart hearts with brave intent 
Leave worn ways behind. 
A regal age shall Faith determine 
Graced by summer's robe of ermine. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 



A FATWOOD FIRE. 

THE kings of the forest bit by bit 
On my brick-laid hearth into ashes expire, 
While nursing my fancies I dreamily sit 
Feeding my fatwood fire. 

Great bunches of ''lighters" by country-folk 
brought, 

And sold at the doorway of every buyer. 
Concentrated richness, eagerly sought, 

A cheap and luxurious fire. 

These turpentine juices, saved from the still. 
In great tongue-flashes leap higher and higher, 

My room's dusky corners to people and fill 
With ghosts from a lightwood fire; 

While healing and fragrance and brightness and 
heat, 

And deep satisfaction for human desire, 
And strength and repose of the spirit do meet 

In the blaze of a fatwood fire. 



82 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 



MY MOCKING-BIRD. 

NO prison cage contains my bird. 
In a leafless water-oak tree 
With mistletoe hung he whistles and sings, 
A hundred quirks has he, 
Trilling, swelling, 
Clear out-welling. 
Loud sings the mocking-bird, loud sings he, 
To a listening world from the old oak tree. 

From the selfsame perch each early spring, 

No matter who may hear, 
He pipes his joyous carolling, 
I hearken and draw near, 
Stealthy, spying. 
His form descrying. 
But his modest plumage I scarce can see 
On the topmost bough of the tall oak tree. 

What meaning hath this medley strain ? 

Blithe notes of lark and jay, 
Of robin, red -bird, oriole, thrush, 
Mixed in delightful way ? 
In new surprises 
The music rises. 
But what cares the mocking-bird, what cares he 
This reveller gay in the old oak tree ? 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 83 

Yet changeful songster, tell me true, 

Dost glv^e but mocking sound ? 
Surely thine own heart passions seek 
For utterance profound. 
Loving, adoring, 
His soul out-pouring, 
With pathos and merriment still sings he, 
My mocking-bird hid in the old oak tree. 



HERO WORSHIP. 



LEAVE us our heroes. Doth stern Truth demand 
' The ruthless razure of each brave ideal ? 
May History's page reflect a perfect Real? 
Must not the fragment for completeness stand ? 



Can we afford to miss the inspiring sight 
Of man's divinest deed in loftiest mood ? 
What else doth stimulate to love of good 

Like soaring fellow-soul in highest flight ? 

Were photograph distinct in noonday glare, 
Each spot by fiercest light more obvious still, 
Truer than artist touch that limns with skill 

The softer outline seen through mellower air ? 



84 SOA'GS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Stay! Though iconoclast in furious mood 
Shatter the shrine of fact with fancy blent, 
Is it so grievous ? Man was never meant 

To worship man. The Lord alone is good. 

It were not ill that we the lesson learn 

Of human lack and frailty. Truth with Love 
Dwelleth unstained alone in realms above, 

Whereto our humbled souls devoutly turn. 

Though earthly gods may fall in fate's reverse, 
E'en while we kneel, behold them close beside, 
Lifting heart homage to the Glorified — 

Heroes no more, but fellow-worshippers. 



w 



DENIAL. 

ITH youth, health, honors, life was crowned. 
While friends and fortune smiled around, 
Yet barrenness of joy he found — 



" One boon, one only boon, I crave. 

All else relinquish this to have, 

But wanting, better were the grave." 

In vain his strivings fierce and hot, 
Nor could bestowment bless his lot, 
' TwdiS poiso7i, — And he knew it not. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 85 



THE BRIDE. 

SHE turned away from flower and gift and kiss 
To childhood's nursery; 
And low reclining on her infant bed, 
E'en while her cup o'erflowed with life's best bliss 
A silent tear she shed 
For her lost liberty. 



BEAUTY'S SERVICE. 

IN the garden of Beauty I wandered with deep'n- 
ing delight 
Till the pathway divergent revealed to my won- 
dering sight 
Even Beauty herself, in glorious presence advancing, 
And I, into ecstasy thrilled by the vision entrancing, 
Before her in worship fell prone, 
'* O goddess," I cried, " I will render thee ever 
My homage devout, and enthrone 
Thy form in my bosom forever." 

But with gesture of mild rebuke she put all my 

proffers by. 
" See that thou do it not; for thy fellow servant am 

I." 



86 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Amazeful I cried: "Nay, service belongeth to 

commoner creatures. 
It would soil thy stainless robe and thy peerless 

perfection flaw. 
No touch of grosser use should harden the grace of 

thy features. 
Thou rulest a realm far other, thyself thine own end 

and law." 
But gently she waved me aside. 
" Go question my flowers! " she replied. 

So, faring onward, I traversed the garden labyrinth 

over. 
While round my steps, up-thronging, pressed 

numberless blooms of clover; 
A lawnful of grassy spirelets my hasty footsteps 

were crushing; 
Around me showered the petals of apple and peach- 
blows blushing. 
And, commingled with theirs, the voice of the 

springing corn 
From fields beyond to my ear by the breeze was 
borne. 

" O pass us not slightingly by," 
With eager insistence they said, 
'* Nor to Beauty our title deny 
Because with utility wed." 

"Ye are fair," I said coldly, "I grant it; but, 
fairer by far, ye must own, 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 87 

Are the flowerets that stoop not to use, but bloom 
for delight alone." 

Then an odorous whisper breathed o'er me from 
blossoming orange boughs bending, 

" Dost treat our sweet pureness with scorn, 

Or forbid us the bride to adorn, 

Because of the fruitage so luscious toward which all 
our being is tending ? " 

But I answered: " Each law hath exception. 

And chiefly the fairest flowers 

Know naught save their own perfection 

And the blossoming of the bowers." 

Then from heart of the roses faint waftures were 

blown : 
" Dost think that the roses no ministry own, 
And in work for the weal of the world have no share 
Because more subtle the missions we bear ? 
If our beauty doth satisfy need 
In the nature of man, canst thou know 
How soon it may germinate seed 
Which into high impulse shall grow ? ' ' 

And the clustering lily-bells rang 

In full chorus of fragrance and sang: 

' ' Fairest of all the fair charms the fairest among us 

e'er nameth 
Is the precious truth of the Master which ever our 

vesture proclaimeth." 



88 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Still I ventured, more humbly: " Once more let me 

ask, 
For buried in forests and hid in the clefts of the 

mountains. 
By desert winds blown and nourished from far-off 

fountains, 
There be myriad flowers tliat acknowledge nor use 

nor task, 
Apart from arena where right doth battle with 

wrong, 
I pray thee, doth ministry also to these belong?" 

Then a mighty murmur arose. 

As though great Nature's repose 

Were aroused to a deep agitation; 

The sand and the stones and all vegetation, 

The insects, the beasts and the birds, 

With one impulse their utterance lent. 

And the winds gave soft modulation, 

While ocean made rhythm, and the stars joined 

with accent harmonious 
The strain that swelled upward in cadence sympho- 

nious. 
Till at last in articulate words 
The myriad voices were blent. 

* * O Witless One, failest to learn 
Creation's deep law ? Dost not see 
How matter inert the floweret doth feed. 
Which yieldeth in turn 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 89 

Its sweets to the bee ? 

The law to all being decreed, 

To satisfy ever the need 

Of some other. Naught liveth alone; 

But in Nature's great Cosmos enlinked must be, 

What prat' St thou of kingdom apart? 'Tis 

unknown. 
So Beauty true dignity findeth in sweet ministration. 
And joineth the chorus that yields to the Ruler of 

all adoration." 

Then slowly I turned me to where I had seen 

Beauty herself, so majestic in mien. 

And lo! she was fallen a-kneeling, with uplifted 

eyes; 
And with strange surprise 
My heart in silence confest 
That of all her charms the best 
Were not found in her features so faultless, nor yet 

in her figure's grace. 
But were gleams of a Heavenlier glory reflected in 

her face. 



MISUNDERSTOOD. 

j/TpWAS not a stranger hand that smote, nor foe; 
X 'Twas brother gave the blow. 
Nor dealt in wrath, nor meant to wound me so, 
He merely did not know. 



90 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 



PERPLEXITY. 

SPEAK plainer, voices echoing in my heart, 
Your jargon's import pray reveal to me. 
Swift impulse, duty, judgment, seem to be 
But loud-mouthed wranglers in the busy mart; 
Your differing becks make me to shrink and start. 
Display your ensigns. Show authority 
For what you speak, some grounded certainty 
Of your inherent meanings pray impart. 
I wait o'erwhelmed in all this strife and tangle 
Of sophistry, — this endless clamorous fight. 
O that escape or remedy were found! 
I list, but still the noises jar and jangle. 
When will the potent master-touch unite 
These discords in one harmony of sound ? 



APPRECIATION. 

NOT praise undue, not censure more than meet, 
Giveth my twin; 
But gentle blame, well earned approval sweet, 
Motive for action, courage in defeat, 
And in my loftiest moods my soul doth greet 
With thoughts akin. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 91 



ANSWER. 

HUSH, foolish heart, and cease thy bootless strife. 
Thyself hath roused this turbulent anarchy 
Of forces in thy being. 'Tis of thee 
This wrangling jar, with din and clamor rift:. 
Like broken string, like shivered lute or fife. 
Like cleaving organ-stop, thy murmurings be 
Discordant minglings in the harmony 
Of the great orchestra thou callest Life. 

Still thy wild outcries! Hush thy vain rebelling! 
The heavenly overtones that now are drowned 
In tumult, yield their cadence to the ears 
That hearken rightly to the anthem swelling. 
To souls accordant, no distracting sound 
Marreth the music of the Eternal spheres. 



92 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 



FULFILLMENT. 

FINISHED at last, the work whereto I've given 
My best for years, and striven 
Not for self-glory, but because was laid 
On me demand. I made 
The final touch my rainbow quest. At last 
Like a flash fulfillment passed — 
Now weary, empty, purposeless, I ask 
Is it gain or loss to count a finished task ? 



THE LEGEND OF NINETY-SIX. 

STRANGE and inspiring tales come faintly ringing 
From Carolina's old colonial days. 
That storied time its hazy mantle flinging 
O'er white men's struggles and o'er Indian ways. 

'Twere well our hearts should keep alive the story 
That kind tradition treasureth from the past; 

We gain new motive from the legends hoary 
That round the tame To-day their halos cast. 

Long years ago a band of English rovers 
By the Saluda did their camp-fire fix. 

Where among wooded hills and blossoming clovers 
Lieth to-day the town of Ninety-Six. 



SONCS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 93 

But soon on trade intent they left their station 

To seek alliance with the Cherokee, 
And smoked the calumet with that ancient nation, 

Driven westward now by ruthless Destiny. 

Thus met the Captain's son, young Allan Francis, 
The dark -browed daughter of the savage King, 

Noble Cateechee, — and mid glowing fancies 

Both hearts were slain by Love's manoeuvering. 

Homeward they came. But in the autumn waning 
To slay the white-face planned the treacherous 
Brave. 

Cateechee, in her tent, deep slumber feigning. 
Listened and whispered, "I'll my lover save." 

Now for the love of Allan see her rushing, 

Through wood and marsh, sun-heat and evening 
damp. 

The dewy ground her "silk-grass" mande brushing, 
To warn the threatened ones within the camp. 

The stretching miles her Indian instincts measure. 

Through ninety-six her hasty footsteps fared 
Unresting to the spot that held the treasure 

For whose dear sake such perils she had dared. 

Gaining the creek upon the southward lying, 
Prostrate at last in deadly swoon she sank, 

Young Allan saw and with a swift out-crying, 
He threw himself beside her on the bank. 



94 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Opened her eyes upon her trembling lover, 
** For you I dared it, and I've come to save 

From death impending." Allan bent above her, 
* ' My Princess. Love hath proved a conqueror 
brave." 

Now by Cateechee warned, with haste the grateful 
And valiant English in the twilight toiled 

For safe resistance, and at midnight fateful, 
The Indian chieftain found his purpose foiled. 

Then Allan took the maiden so devoted 
To be his wife, and reared a dusky race. 

And through the region was the story noted, 
And the brave deed gave title to the place. 

In later days came modern vandals hoping 
To change by law the ancient honored name. 

But a wise champion, with their purpose coping 
Into the Senate room undaunted came, 

Bearing aloft a strange device inwoven 

Of figures "nine" and "six." In deep amaze 

They heard his cry, "Behold my reasoning proven," 
Inverting then, and turning devious ways, 

Upward and downward, left and right, " Now mind 
it! 
North, South, or East or West, on either hand 
Nothing but Ninety-Six can searching find it. 
And for all time this name shall changeless stand." 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 95 

Quiet the scene to-day, a peaceful village 
Whose modest eye the landscape overlooks, 

Evergreen canes and fruitful fields of tillage 
Enlivened by a hundred sparkling brooks. 



And Indian relics strewn the meadows over, 
Old tomahawks and bits of pottery rude 

Tell of the day Cateechee saved her lover 
From dreadful death by loving fortitude. 

Here let us pause and these old records ponder, 
And in our minds and hearts their memory fix, 

Around the star-shaped fort that loometh yonder, 
And guards the village of old Ninety-Six. 



CHRISTOPHER GADSDEN. 

IN the borders of ancient Charles-Town 
Where the Ashley River runs, 
Round Christopher Gadsden gathered 
Brave Carolina's sons, 
And under a massive live-oak shade, 

Gray-bearded patriarch tree, 
They pledged the word and girded the sword 
For the cause of Liberty. 



96 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

For tyranny's hand was heavy; 

The dullest soul was stirred, 
And the voice of bold resistance 

To foreign rule was heard. 
'Twas Massachusetts gave the call, 

No stronger soul than she 
Unto this day hath shaped the way 

For a people's destiny. 

But no second to the summons 

From the faint-hearted came, 
And the smoke of doubt was smothering 

Bright Freedom's flickering flame; 
The blaze that was kindled in Fanueil Hall 

Was swiftly dying out 
For want of a breath to keep it from death 

In all the land about. 

In that great crucial moment 

Which tried the souls of men, 
'Twas the voice of Christopher Gadsden 

That pronounced for Union then; 
From the dim Southern distance rang 

His voice in resonant tone, 
' * What to one doth befall, belongeth to all, 

We are one people alone." 

Then from Hampshire hills to Georgia, 

All the divided land. 
Was moved by a mighty impulse 

In fellowship to stand; 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 97 

Yea, all the colonies in that day 

With dauntless purpose rose 
And gave their hands in brotherly bands 

Against their country's foes. 

First in New England highways 

The blood of the brave was shed, 
But Southern wastes and hillsides 

With the last drops were red. 
For the issues of Concord and Bunker Hill 

The Puritans left their toil, 
But at the last the die was cast 

And won on Southern soil. 

Ye have heard how in Carolina 

The Patriot's Cause seemed lost ; 
How ruthless through all her borders 

Ravaged the Conquering host ; 
How with stern restriction and treacherous oath 

The souls that had striven to be free 
In bondage they held, and to earth they felled 

And burned that old Liberty tree. 

No tree on History's pages 

Hath better right, I wis, 
No Charter Oak, nor Washington Elm 

For lasting renown, than this ; 
But though its glories all were shorn 

And its site may no man see. 
With reverence here I witness bear 

To the fame of that Old Oak tree. 



98 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Long lay the land in darkness, 

Yet in mountain fastness and swamp, 

Bold Partisans, true to their Country- 
Kept burning Liberty's Lamp. 

In shelterless famine these out-law bands 
'Mong morasses that skirt the Pedee 

Kept the pledge that they made 'neath the moss- 
hung shade 
Of Gadsden's Liberty tree. 

Let the wrongs of the time be forgotten. 

The hatred that oft did divide 
As Tory and Whig, close kinsmen 

Who should have fought side by side ; 
But we'll lift our banners on each July 

For all the ages to see. 
While oration and bell triumphantly tell 

Of the conflict that made us free. 

And second to none in glory 

Christopher Gadsden's name 
Upon the patriot roll-call 

Boasteth enduring fame — 
Large-souled, unwavering, faultless, bold. 

Lover of Country he. 
Who spied afar the glorious star 

Of Western liberty. 

Still echoing down the ages 
His voice in accent strong 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 99 

Reminds us if grown faint-hearted 

To unite against error and wrong, 
To acknowledge now no East and no West, 

No North and no South to see, 
No Dixie — nay — nor New England to-day, 

For Americans all are we. 



SONNETS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
I. 

LAND of the pine and cypress, where the shades 
Of tropic forests that no seasons know 
Are wed to heralds from the realms of snow; 
Where blooms the laurel, while the jessamine braids 
Its golden wreaths, and in dim everglades 
Elegiac banners tremble to and fro; 
Where dark palmettoes wave, and mistletoe 
Gives waxen verdure when the summer fades ; 
O land, wherein the mocker builds his nest 
And chants his oracles, and loud adores. 
Where silent marshes clasp the curving shores; 
Thou gracious land, give us the largess blest 
Of chosen souls who lean on Natures' breast 
While in their ear her mysteries she pours. 

II.' 

In vernal hedgerows blooms the Eglantine, 
And opening fleecy bolls and ripening maize 



lOo SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Give wealthy glories to the summer days. 
O'er wayside bush the fervid passion-vine 
Its regal spray of mystic crowns doth twine. 
Upon a sheltered bank, while fancy strays 
Through purpling distances, we lie and gaze, 
Such rare inheritance, O South, is thine. 
Below, the river to the ocean runs. 

And perfumed air and shimmering splendor lies 
In feeless bounty 'neath benignant skies. 
Thus reverent Nature sings her orisons 
And shows her secrets to the anointed ones 
Who win to read them with anointed eyes. 



III. 



A LAND of old renown on History's page, 
Where storied Huguenot and Cavalier 
Their missions blended ; where without a peer 

Gay Chivalry doth boast his golden age : 

Where beauteous women and brave men engage 
Fond Memory's backward look and listening ear, 
Though mingling sorrows start the ruthful tear 

For all that marred the Southland heritage. 

Yet sing its glory now with lute and lyre. 
We bury but the dead. So let it be ! 
The Past is safe ! With chastened gladness we 

Will bid its virtues still the heart inspire. 

Only the dross doth yield to furnace fire; 
What ought to live hath immortality. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. loi 

IV. 

A LAND of nameless graves, where heroes sleep 
In blue and gray; the sacred dust of those 
Above whose mouldering bed the rank weed 
grows, 

And never moistened eyes may come to weep. 

The dumb cold earth doth hide their secrets deep; 
Its sealed, unpitying lips will ne'er disclose 
This mortal pathos which no mortal knows. 

Their God doth know, and He their souls will keep. 

The loosened hand-clasp aching hearts still miss, 
And thoughts of North and South do vainly turn 
Unto these battle graves and vaguely yearn 

For the last loving word, the final kiss. 

But Mother Nature's heart most tender is, 

And wreathes each resting-place with moss and 
fern. 

V. 

Land of the Future! Lift thy forehead high! 
As from the chamber lit by taper rays 
With hidden corners where the shadow plays, 

One goeth forth beneath the open sky 

Of the vast firmament and sends his eye 
Through starry spaces with a deep amaze, 
So now a boundless vision meets thy gaze 

In which the wings of faith unfettered fly. 

The Future beckons. None shall say thee nay! 
Go forth in large resolve with giant stride, 



I02 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Nor in the folds of doubt thy talents hide. 
The dawn of Hope triumphant beams to-day, 
No gate, no caste, no creed shall bar its way. 

God's purposes forever shall abide. 

VI. 

O MORNING Land! From dreaming slumbers wake! 

High noon approacheth with occasion rare; 

For nobler victories now thy strength prepare, 
And every hindrance from thy shoulders shake. 
The magic sword of truth now boldly take. 

More than Excalibur in might, and dare 

To wrestle with all wrong, and overbear 
Each hindering foe, each chain of error break. 
Thy moral manhood prove by noble fight; 

Chivalric graces still the world doth need 

For peaceful conquests over pride and greed. 
Join then the tournament with armor bright, 
And win thine honors as a gentle knight. 

So shall thou boast a Chivalry indeed. 

VII. 

Peace be within thy borders! May the rude 
Trumpet of War no more with blast malign 
Disturb thy groves of laurel and of pine, 

So verdant now in balmy quietude. 

May lofty motive lower aims preclude, 

And Bethlehem's echoing song with cadence fine 
Inspire thy steadfast soul with love divine 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 103 

And keep thee safe through fate's vicissitude. 
In benison my voice I gladly lend. 

May peaceful homes and fireside pleasures be 

Thy cherished tokens of felicity. 
O kindly land, with trustfulness, as friend, 
Across thy hills and plains my prayers I send, 

And give thee here my benedicite. 

VIII. 

Thou larger land! Home of us all thou art! 
Happy to-day that now the Cavalier 
And Huguenot with Puritan draw near, 

Hand clasped in hand and heart enlinked with heart. 

Forgotten now be every vengeful smart, 

And while we hold our native country dear, 
May her wide bound proclaim in accents clear 

That all mankind doth hold inherent part 

In the All-Father's love and so hath claim 
To human brotherhood; that all who fill 
God's family may share the birthright still. 

May largest loves add lustre to her fame 

The while we hush the noise of strife and blame 
In grateful songs of glory and goodwill. 

IX. 

Truly the new is older than the old. 

It hath but slept awhile, enwrapped in mist, 
But wakening earth the sunlight warm hath kissed, 

And all the hills are decked in robes of gold. 



I04 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

Larger horizons now our eyes behold, 
Delusive fogs no more our way resist, 
The far-off future doth our hopes enlist 

And lengthening vistas to our view unfold. 

In vain in narrow bounds is knowledge pent; 

When God gives light in vain our ways we hide, 
Our finite wills check not the ocean tide. 

Unto our wanderings truth can ne'er be bent, 

But her straight bands of love and wisdom blent 
Our rapt obedient souls will safely guide. 



ALONG THE CONGAREE, 

FROM Carolina's mountains 
Wee springs and brooklets flow, 
And join with rush and tumult 
To wet the plains below. 
Through sandhill and savanna 

And where the millsites be 
By quarried bluff and rockpile rough 
Floweth the Congaree. 

A noble group of v/aters 

It rolls its sinuous tide 
'Neath moss-encumbered forests 

Where coon and " squinch-owl " hide. 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 105 

We trace the map-line channels 

Like a grim ancestral tree 
Through wanderings vast to rest at last 

In the bed of the still Santee. 

A hundred years have vanished 

Since moved the people's mind 
For a noble capital city 

The fitting site to find. 
At fork where the brave Saluda 

And tawny Broad we see 
In marriage bands, Columbia stands 

Upon the Congaree. 

Nigh eighty years in beauty 

With shaded avenue 
And stately home and temple 

The garden city grew. 
Then one curst night in winter 

(O God, that such could be) 
Saw shot and shell and flames like hell 

Along the Congaree. 

But see, the phoenix city 

Though hushed its life-pulse then, 
From shroud of ashes proudly 

Doth rear its crest again. 
Fair as of old, nay, fairer, 

No slave-mart now we see 
To soil with stain of sinful gain 

The untainted Congaree. 



io6 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 

From peaceful hill of sunset 

We gaze with ravished eyes 
Where granite pile and church spire 

Half hid in verdure rise. 
The mists creep o'er the valley 

Where the rocky Congaree 
Doth rippling flow to greet below 

Its twin, the Wateree. 

Or, covered bridge-way crossing 

We pause where loud alarms 
The trembling city menaced 

From camps of men in arms. 
War, charged with freedom's message. 

Made scars that still we see 
On the massive wall of the State House tall 

Beyond the Congaree. 

But sounds of peace now mingle 

With the river's murmuring flow, 
Along its green embankments 

The corn and cotton grow, 
Canal and farm and traflic 

In common toil agree. 
And whirring mill doth work its will 

With the idle Congaree. 

Thus rolls a lusty river 

In shade and sunny gleam 
Through meadow and where rock-ledge 

Deflects the tortuous stream, 



SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 107 

To seek its last abiding 

Near where the Great Pedee 
Doth find its way through Winyah Bay . 

Into the restless sea. 

Now to its fertile basin 

May sun and shower be kind, 
Great Heaven all ills forefending; 

And may the future find 
From springs on Tryon Mountain 

And source of Ennoree 
From Alpine height to beachline white, 

A people wise and free. 

And let all murmu rings craven 

Within these borders cease. 
And in all hearts be mirrored 

The river's strength and peace. 
Joys felt are ours forever, 

And each of us will be 
Forever glad for joys we've had 

Beside the Congaree. 



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